


The Legacy

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:01:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26405422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: A next-to-impossible mission spawns a deadly plot from the inside, touching more lives than anyone could guess.  Violence, death, tragedy, nightmares enough to go around, and an unforeseen legacy that will go on for long after the mission, even the war, is over.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	The Legacy

The four-man board at HQ read the outline and exchanged serious looks. Well, it was a serious situation, no one could question that. A fortune in rare gems of assorted variety, some in their raw state, some set into fantastical items of adornment - scheduled to be confiscated from a museum that specialized in such things, then headed directly for Hitler's treasury, there to be turned into munitions, weapons research, and a great deal else that would only serve to prolong this war. 

Of course, it looked impossible on the surface - heaven knows those items would be heavily guarded and, according to the intel, there were decoy transfers in the mix as well, to confuse and lead anyone astray that might make a try for them. Frankly, to any sensible person, it looked like an impossible task.

Still, one name had been put forward as a possibility. 

"If anyone can pull it off, it would be Lieutenant Garrison and his team. They're quite good at this sort of thing," Colonel Dixon declared, lending his whole-hearted support behind the name suggested for this mission. "Between that Actor fellow, who is an expert in jewels and such, and the safecracker, that pickpocket of his - though I imagine the one they call Chief has his own skills to back them all up. Garrison certainly speaks highly of the man and his contributions to the team. And there's no one better at the double-think, evasive manoeuvres, even the pure confidence game, than Garrison. If it weren't so advantageous for our side, his level of expertise at such things would almost be embarrassing! Yes, to my estimation, they'd be the ones with the only chance of identifying and making off with those treasures, keeping them out of Hitler's hands."

He snorted, "of course, whether WE end up with those particular items, at least all of them, is another story, but keeping them out of Hitler's bankroll would be sufficient to satisfy me. Thought it seems Garrison does keep them in line, at least most of the time, though I doubt he's as successful as he thinks. Of course, if any of the adjacent valuables go astray, I doubt we'll ever know about it, us OR Garrison; they really ARE quite good at what they do, you know. For myself, I'll not lose sleep over any petty little details as long as they're not overly greedy."

Major Kingston obviously didn't agree with that assessment, not from the sour look on his face, but he knew he was in the minority among this particular group, so he didn't say any of what he was thinking. He was well accustomed to that, both parts of it actually.

Major Mills snorted. "Greedy or not, I can't see any other team having even a breath of a chance. I say we go with Garrison and hope for the best."

Colonel Jamieson conceded that point - well, all of them actually - but glancing down at the daunting details in that file, gave a solemn warning.

"Let's just hope they're at the top of their game, or even the illustrious Lieutenant Garrison and his Gorillas are going to be in over their heads. Jerry isn't going to be wearing blinders or sitting on their hands. Still, I'd say, considering their record and the skills likely to be involved in this one, Garrison and his crew are exactly the ones to tap on the shoulder. I certainly can't think of anyone else to call on!"

Major Kingston solemnly nodded his agreement, letting no trace of his thoughts cross his face.

{"Well, it certainly sounds like it's right up their alley, the larcenous reprobates! The thing is, I don't think I want them to 'pull it off'; I'm more than certain my 'friends' would prefer they didn't. Hmmmm - 'top of their game'. An interesting comment. Now just what would throw them OFF their game, Garrison and his scoundrels, enough to cause them to come up short? That's the question."}. 

Kingston was sure he could come up with something; in fact, had made a few contacts, put a few pieces into play awhile back, just in case any interesting opportunities ever arose. Well, he did like to be prepared for whichever way the game started to turn. 

Now he had an promising idea. Of all the things that would cause Garrison to become distracted, even distract those men of his, cause them to lose their edge, it would surely be a serious threat, to one of his team, maybe a friend, maybe even that pretty sister of his!

No, maybe more than a threat! Yes, that was it! Something quite dire, something that maybe killed more than one bird with the same stone. 

He chuckled silently to himself at the very much intended pun, although he set aside the notion of targeting Lynn Garrison. Oh, not out of any gentlemanly notions; he just wasn't sure, no matter how Garrison would react, if the men on the team were so attached that THEY'D be equally distracted.

{"Of course, if GARRISON is sufficiently distracted, maybe that wouldn't matter. Could they do the job without him, maybe with Reynolds or one of the others? Hmmmm, best not take a chance. No, no sense complicating matters. Best to go with the simple version, the one that is SURE to work."}

He even knew, well, at least knew OF, just the man for the job, a true expert in his field. Not a field Kingston had much interest in, not for himself, of course. He found it all a little distasteful, actually. He was far too civilized, preferring any 'slicing-and-dicing' to be of the more subtle under-the-radar verbal kind. He was a true mole, after all - undermining the solid ground under the enemy's feet was his style, not face to face combat. Still, as long as the man would be guided as to the general outline, he felt he could safely leave matters in Daemon's quite capable hands. 

Now, to start it all rolling before that group of hoodlums and their annoying leader headed out. He had some time; intel was still being gathered, and the wheels did grind exceedingly slow sometimes. 

He had a feeling his masters would pay him quite nicely for this little tour de force! And if he got a little extra satisfaction in picturing Garrison's reaction, the others? Even more than a little satisfaction knowing he would be depriving Garrison of one of his key team players? Well, that was just a bonus! 

Now, just to find a way to get one of them away from the others, within Daemon's reach. He didn't much care which one ended up with Daemon; Garrison seemed to be unreasonably attached to each of them, should be equally affected by Daemon's handiwork whichever.

{"Highly unprofessional, of course, that attachment, but in this case, it should prove to my advantage. I imagine what I have in mind will put them decidedly OFF their game, Garrison and the rest, if Daemon lives up to his reputation. Doubt they'll be able to focus enough to handle the briefing, much less the mission!! Now, just how to manage it - that's the question! They do tend to stick together, blast their hides! And Garrison DOES keep a sharp eye on them. I don't want that eagle eye, or that sharp mind, to focus in on me, certainly."}. 

After all, as the major knew quite well, Garrison thought three-dimensionally, along with having far more than his share of good luck; he'd have to be very careful not to draw down suspicion onto himself. Still, while Kingston found that annoying as hell, Garrison and his luck and his multi-level thinking skills, he had to admit, he had a considerable amount of both, himself. In his profession - both of them - that was essential.

And in this case, luck was starting out firmly on Kingston's side, as events at the Mansion soon bore out. Soon one of Garrison's team left the Mansion, headed for London, straight into the area where Kingston's minion waited and watched and planned. And a nameless hand picked up the telephone and made a call to alert Daemon Cutter.

Daemon Cutter - only son of a stern preacher of an even more stern denomination. Born Milburn Broadstradle before he changed it to something he considered much more fitting, something he'd toyed with ever since he'd heard a particularly energetic, even inspiring sermon by the elder Broadstradle on "the power and might, the terrible dark beauty possessed by the daemons of the Exiled One - Satan, He who chose to rule in Hell rather than serve in Heaven." Yes, Daemon was watching and waiting, planning, wondering which of the four men would be the one to move into reach. After that call, he knew, and pulled out the file that had been given to him to refresh his memory. 

*  
An urgent call from Dr. Patrick O'Donnell brought a frustrated groan to Garrison's pickpocket; he'd had PLANS for the next couple of days and they hadn't included being drafted as a substitute 'big brother', or whatever the hell Patrick had in mind. I mean, if the rascal's own father hadn't been able to budge him, what was the likelihood of Goniff being able to do the trick??!

But a sense of duty, hell, even a wry acknowledgement that being from the East End and another alumni of Maudie's pub, yes, and the memory of the youngster getting that slash across the arm in Goniff's defense, maybe that DID make him sort of family to the annoying young man who had Patrick in such a taking, sent Goniff off to London at a quick pace. 

Accompanied by Meghada, of course. No way was Garrison going to countenance Goniff heading off on his own, no matter how desperate the situation, not only because of the trouble the man could get manage to get himself into, but because he was probably the world's worst driver and Garrison wanted to keep Goniff in one piece! Yes, yes, he'd also have to write a report on the loss of the mangled vehicle, but that was beside the point - he could deal with that, but a mangled Goniff was a different story entirely.

Not that Garrison was so eager to send the pair off in the first place, never knowing when a mission would show up on his plate, but he figured, if necessary, he could scoop up his pickpocket in London if they had to make a mad dash outwardbound. And, he admitted, he owed Patrick a lot, not to mention what he owed Daniel Madison, leader of the Brangle Street Lads. And it was Daniel who was in trouble, or so Patrick said, and being stubborn as blue blazes at undertaking what was necessary to do him any good! 

{"Imagine that! A teenage male refusing to accept good advice from a doctor, flat out refusing to admit he isn't indestructible!"} Garrison thought wryly, remembering himself at seventeen. If he realized he hadn't changed all THAT much in that regard in the last ten years or so, he briskly thrust that thought aside. He thought about what Goniff had told him as he'd hurried to get into clean clothes after that bout on the obstacle course.

"Not perky at all, Patrick says. 'Ad some real nasty spells before Cam realized there was something really wrong and 'auled 'im in to see Patrick, no matter w'at Daniel wanted. Sounds serious, and Patrick claims 'e's flat out digging in 'is 'eels about listening, too. Seems to think I might be able to do some good; not so sure of that, myself, can't see why 'e'd be interested in listening to me, but willing to take a stab at it. Lucky 'Gaida'll be there w'en the young rascal spits in my eye for thinking to tell 'im w'at to do. More likely she could talk 'im into w'at Patrick says is needed than me."

Spit in his eye was about it, from what Goniff was encountering in the way of resistance. Seems if anyone was best to explain this 'juvenile onset diabetes' thing young Daniel seemed to have picked up, it would be Patrick or James, them being doctors and all, but also seemed Daniel wasn't having any part of it, no matter who was doing the explaining. That sullen, mulish look on the teenager's face said it all.

"I listened, all right, Goniff! 'Juvenile' - that means 'tyke', right? Aint a tyke, OLD MAN!" that last perjorative being spit out with considerable disdain, as if there were sixty years between them, rather than the sixteen or so in reality. 

Goniff was careful not to let his frustration or his amused understanding show; neither were likely to get him very far. He remembered being Daniel's age, and as he recalled, he'd looked at anyone in his early thirties as being pretty well past it too. He didn't necessarily appreciate the attitude, looking at it from this direction, but he understood. 

"Now, was 'e talking about Brodie, that might be a different story," Daniel muttered sullenly, mentioning his younger brother, age eight. Then he started on the OTHER angle, the practical side, that was just as disturbing.

"Bloody 'ell, this nonsense the doc's spouting off??! Going around poking myself with a needle all the time? You imagine w'at the Bluebottles will say, them catching me with that kit on me; be claiming I'm using the aunties, or selling it or worse, they will! And me keeping little bottles of stuff stashed 'ere and there, w'erever I might end up most days? Never mind the paying for it and all! Taking the best of w'at's on the table, never minding w'at everyone else is needing? 'Ardly enough to go around as it is, between the family and the Lads and their close ones! 'Aving mum and dad keeping boiled water on 'and, at the pub, at 'ome, 'aving me down a glass as often as I take a breath? W'ere do they get the extra, or the coin to boil it up, you tell me that? Not bloody likely!"

Well, Goniff had no intention of explaining that diagnosis, not that he really understood more than the basics. As far as he could tell, it all boiled down to some part of Daniel's body deciding to go off acting like a ruddy brat giving the rest of the works the middle finger! 

He'd leave the details to the doctors; there was other things that he was pretty sure the doctors HADN'T thought to say that HE thought Daniel needed to hear, to think on more than a little. Seems even the East End hadn't pounded it through that thick skull that what you want to be isn't always what IS, though Goniff wasn't sure how the boy hadn't managed to learn that lesson early on. HE certainly had, and at a far younger age!

{"Probably comes of being Cam's boy, along with being part of the Lads, then being the leader. Like Craig, probably, too, the in-charge type, not easily accepting 'e doesn't always have the final say in w'at 'is body and mind are willing to play along with."}

Explaining all that Goniff had learned over a lifetime on that particular subject, part coming from his association with said Craig Garrison, along with what Meghada knew, interspersed with what they'd learned about this new thing, 'Type I diabetes', also known as 'Juvenile onset diabetes', from Patrick and James, it had taken time and every bit of persuasive ability they had. Whatever qualities young Daniel had, and he had a goodly number of outstanding qualities, sheer stubborness was right up there with the top ranking ones. 

{"Puts me in mind of Peter Newkirk, 'e does, in that way and in a few more!"} Goniff thought with some frustrated amusement looking at the thin lanky dark-haired youngster scowling back at him. {"Pouts like 'im too, when 'e's laid up in bed!"}

Goniff perched on the arm of a chair, knowing how much Daniel would dislike him sitting on the side of the bed. Meghada could get away with that, but not him. No, this had to be equal talking to equal, and he had to admit, Daniel wasn't to be looked down on, condescended to. He was young, but he was an East Ender, the leader of one of the most effective street gangs in the area, and totally capable of the responsibility. Goniff intended to talk to him as he'd be most likely to listen to if someone talked to HIM that way. 'Likely', not a sure thing, Goniff admitting to having a serious stubborn streak of his own, of course.

"Aint an insult, not as 'ow Patrick explained it, that 'Juvenile' tag they put on the ruddy thing. It's just a word, a label, just to keep that kind separate from the other kind, them being alike in some ways, but different in others. If that sort of thing 'it me, it would show a little different, most likely, and it would be called 'Type II Diabetes', cause that's the type that seems to come to those who are older. With you, you ended up with w'at they call 'Type I, Juvenile Onset', and that sort, it just seems more likely to come on to those a bit younger. 

"And it's not like it only 'its tykes; many are your age and even above from w'at I 'ear; even a few of us 'oldsters' manage to get it now and again. That's w'ere that 'Juvenile' comes from, just meaning a different sort than the 'old folks type' like I'd most likely get," giving Daniel a wide smirk. It wouldn't do to let the young twerp know how that "Old Man" irked him; that would only mean he'd hear it every other sentence out of Daniel's mouth.

"Not easy, I know," he commiserated with the glaring teenager, "coming up against something that can act against you, especially out of the blue. Especially w'en it's your own body doing the acting out. But it's like yer da, 'im being born with only three fingers on that one 'and. Doubt 'e likes it over much, any more than you like this. Not like 'e would 'ave gone out of 'is way to get that in the draw, neither, but it is w'at it is, so 'e figured out ways around it. Don't see it slowing 'im down all that much, not w'en 'e's got a few work-arounds to deal with things, now do you? And you got things to deal with, yourself, to get done, so you've got to come up with your own work-arounds, and that's w'ere Patrick comes in. 'E knows about such things."

He paused, letting the sullen young man take that in. No, nothing much slowed down the elder Cam Madison; a calm, easy-going and reliable man, he was, but deadly if need be, well capable of taking care of what was his. He'd led the Brangle Street Lads himself, in his teen years, bad hand and all, before he settled down to running the family pub and raising a family of his own.

Meghada gave him a slight nod, urging him onward, encouraging him to dive a little deeper into what Goniff rarely discussed with anyone, him not really liking to try and explain himself to others. Still, he owed Daniel, and Meghada wouldn't have pushed if she hadn't thought it worthwhile, if she hadn't seen some softening in the younger man's stance, so he shrugged and went on.

"People are different, Daniel, inside as well as in 'ow they look and talk and think and act. Me, if I don't get enough to eat - and I don't mean just pleasurable things, things I might think I WANT necessarily, things that would tempt anyone's appetite, but just food of any sort, w'ether I like it much or not - if I don't get enough to keep my body doing w'at it ought, things seem to forget 'ow they're supposed to be, and my mind slows down right along with my body. Can't think straight, and nothing works right - 'ands and fingers don't follow w'at I'm telling them to do, never mind my feet and legs. Just can't push myself to do w'at I ought, w'at I NEED to be doing. Puts me at a disadvantage I just can't afford, what the TEAM can't afford. 

"So I eat w'at there is to eat, W'ENEVER it's there to eat, and keep my eyes peeled for anything there might be. I laugh and joke right back w'en the guys tease about my appetite, but it's more than that - it's survival, for me. Aint saying I don't relish sitting down to something particularly nice, but I aint got the luxury of 'olding out for that. In some ways, it's better I'm not as big as some blokes; would just be more of me to try to maintain, and it's a rough enough job of it as it is.

"Now, Patrick says 'is profession 'as a few fancy words for that too, 'aving to do with 'hypermetabolism', w'atever the 'ell that is, and troubles there, mostly starting from even before I was born. 'Gaida now, she says it's because I'm 'MacTire', w'atever that is, and don't ask me, I've 'eard 'er explanation and I still don't understand it and likely never will! Not saying she's wrong, just that it's beyond me to wrap myself around. Now, Patrick says that's a likely reason, sure enough, w'at she calls it, their family 'as 'ad a few like that, but it fits in with the rest, something I was born with, something from those before me, not something I went out and asked for."

{"Not like 'e can put THAT in the medical files, that 'MacTire' being a Clan thing and all, and likely to get HQ and the rest all up in the boughs if they were to read such a thing. Putting down that I'm w'at THEY call an 'unmanifested wolf' or some such thing, can just SEE if HQ got 'old of THAT! Never mind those old stories Aunt Moll used to tell about a few in the family, great-uncles and the like who 'ad uncommon ways about them! More than a little peculiar, some of them, and I 'eard 'wolf' mentioned more than once, along with 'fox' and a few other things no less troublesome. Always thought they were just nursery tales til I 'eard 'Gaida and the others talking about such, calm and clear, just like it's something not all that unknown, after all, not in their family."}

Meghada took up the battle, perching at a comfortable distance from the reluctantly-intrigued teenager. She was trying for friendly concern, sisterly, maybe. Considering the times Daniel had tried flirting with her, even suggesting he'd gladly step in if she ever got tired of the 'Old Man', she wasn't about to lessen the age-and-experience distance between them. And she knew to avoid anything maternal in her demeanor. Daniel would be infuriated by any hint of that, of course, feel insulted on various levels, and frankly, 'maternal' wasn't how she'd describe herself at any time!

"And for me, Daniel, I have an uncommon need for strong drink - not to bring on gaity or forgetfulness or any of the usual reasons some might reach for a bottle, but something unique to my family, something I was born with, and even then something that only shows up in a very rare few of my family. It's called 'stoking the dragon's fire', and does not lead to drunkeness, thankfully, but by doing without, I put not just myself but others at danger. The drink lets me keep things in balance inside and out, helps me control my less uncivilized inclinations, like my temper and such. Even WITH sufficient stoking, I'm told my temper, my restraint is at danger level. WithOUT? Ai di me!!" giving a wry look and rolling her eyes and sharing a companionable chuckle, getting similar ones from Goniff and her brother Patrick.

Goniff snorted in agreement. "And take my word for it, Daniel, she's right there. Seen 'er w'en there's nothing available and she's got the need and something sets 'er off! Like a ruddy 'urricane, she is! Best thing is to dive for cover, cover your 'ead, and 'ope she don't bring the w'ole building down around your ears! SHE may call it 'stoking the dragon's fire'; Actor call it 'keeping the berserker at bay', nevermind w'atever the 'ell a berserker might be!"

Patrick had waited, a little amused at the stubborn defiance on the young man's face turning to doubt and suspicion, then a reluctant acceptance - at least, the beginning of that. These two were people Daniel respected, no matter how he liked to twit Goniff about his 'advancing age'.

It was Patrick's turn again, and he hoped he could get some acceptance where before he'd gotten only flat-out refusal to consider the possibilities.

"And they're right, you know. They both have their strong points, more than I can name - but, like all of us, there are things that can bring them down, things they have to be careful of, be on the lookout for. Things they can't let pride distance them from. Pride is a fine thing, but can also set itself up as a snare to trip you up if a person goes unaware. 

"Now, these two - they each have responsibilities, things they need to do, things and people they WANT to be taking proper care of. And because of that, they do whatever they must, even if they'd choose otherwise if it were possible."

Goniff listened, was expecting there still to be a battle, and there was, but he thought that between the three of them, him and Meghada and Patrick, they had Daniel at least on the road to being convinced. 

And it was true, all of it, and Daniel needed to understand, to accept, and then turn all that stubbornness to figuring out how to deal with the hand he'd been dealt.

The Lads needed Daniel; his family, hell, the neighborhood needed Daniel. The Brangle Street Lads were an important part of what kept things in line around and about, and the Lads needed a strong leader, and there was no one else in line, the previous leaders - Daniel's older brother and cousin - being off to war. Well, except for Clary and he was only thirteen, a trifle young to be taking over the leadership of the Lads.

Goniff and Meghada had given a shared sigh of relief as they left, Daniel looking over what Patrick proposed in the way of treatment, looking over the needles and small vials of medicine that would be necessary, a list of what would be needed in giving himself the care he'd more have liked to be providing to someone else rather than indulging himself. 

The cost - medicines, food, fuel - would be shared out, all three of those badgering at him picking up a goodly chunk; even Daniel accepted the necessity of that, and the eyes-and-ears services of the Lads would be good coin in return, so he could accept what was offered without thinking it charity. It looked promising, all in all, and the two visitors were happy enough to be out and on their way. They both spent enough time in and around hospitals as it was, had no great inclination to spend any more.

"Promised Kevin I'd pick up that file to look over if I was up here anytime soon; you mind a stop at HQ?" Meghada asked. "Or you can wait at Marchant's if you like better; I'd not blame you one bit!" 

He wrinkled his nose and admitted, "just as 'appy not to be walking around in there. Just trouble waiting to 'appen, especially with Craig not 'aving an idea that's w'ere I am. W'at say we 'ead in that direction, leave you and the car to deal with the blokes there; then I'll peel off on foot to wait at Marchant's? Might stop and see 'ow Maggs is doing, pass along a few messages, since I don't 'ave Casino to worry with. That won't take a minute or two, so I'll be there waiting for you w'en you make it back."

He looked at her with a wry smile. "One a these days, wouldn't it be nice to just 'ead off someplace and not 'ave to worry about trouble waltzing up and asking us to dance?"

Meghada snorted. "Nice, certainly. And with some that might be possible, maybe, laddie. With you and me, with Craig and the guys? Somehow, I'm not thinking the odds are with us. Still, it might make a nice change, even just for a day or two, even just a few hours," she admitted.

"We could do it - well, at least pretend like it was real, you know. Get a room somew'ere, use other names, pretend it was all set up, maybe me looking at a steady job not likely to bring the Bluebottles down on us, no one fussing at us to do anything we didn't want to, everything all nice and even-keeled," he offered with an engaging smile, a very inviting one. "Once you get back, I could go out and get something from the shops w'ile you get settled in all nice and cozy. It'd be fun. Craig aint expecting us back til tomorrow anyway."

It was a plan, and a good one, good enough she thought they might do just that once she finished at HQ. 

Ah, the best of plans, and all of that. 

*  
The small rental room was registered in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Darby MacNair, and while not luxurious by any means, provided all they needed. Now Shana hugged him warmly, let him go with one farewell kiss, a smile of encouragement. 

"You take care, Darby. I'll be waiting right here!" 

Aye, she'd be waiting for him - she always had been, from that first time they'd met; always would be, just as she knew he'd always return to her no matter what, as long as he drew breath. 

He waved cheerfully as he departed to take the first steps to securing their future. A job he'd been promised! A real job, even more, a 'position', one with a future! Not often one of his sort got the opportunity for that! Then, on the way back, a stop at the food shops for something a little special to celebrate.

She whirled around in the rented room, arms outstretched as she laughed with glee. It wasn't a fancy room, not in the best part of town; she didn't care. It didn't matter - what mattered was that no one knew where they were, no one could come after them and force them back under their thumbs. 

This was the first day of the rest of their new lives, their now-FREE lives - together they were going to make a new future for themselves, for the family they were going to have in a few months. They could make a life to be proud of, build a legacy for the family they were to have!

No more pickpocketing on his part, no more taking orders from someone else on hers, no more answering to her mother's family about what should and shouldn't be, where her 'duty' lay. Soon, ah - soon!

*  
They were on the broad front terrace, Casino, Chief, Actor, complaining about Goniff having bailed on them and their plans, making them wait around for him to get back from that 'emergency' visit to London. 

"Yeah, right, emergency my ass! Can't believe the Warden bought whatever sob story the damn fool poured out! Likely got a line on some shiny little trinket he's been keeping his eye out for! Or maybe him and Meghada just decided to shack up for a hot time between fancy sheets with hot and cold running room service! Making us cool our heels while he's living it up! Just wait til I get my hands on that little Limey! Gonna tear him limb from limb, and that's just the start, I swear. He's not gonna know what . . .!! "

The shout from the Main Gate and a single rifle shot, followed by a bevy of others. Then the screech of tires, and the black sedan roared around the drive, not even slowing down at the curve, not even when those inside threw open the door and tossed their grim cargo to the men scattering at the commotion, avoiding any more shots that might be fired. But there were no more, only the rapidly-retreating tail lights of the car, license plate smeared with mud to be indecipherable. 

Then - nothing - other than an echoing silence - nothing but what the car had left behind. What it had left, and the silent, shock-stunned men staring down. The three members of the team, the two guards who'd come running at the commotion. The guards took off running to summon someone better able to deal with the situation, but the three members of Garrison's team ran toward, not away from, that ominous sight.

Casino was the first to reach the spot where the limp form had been tossed. He carefully turned the body over, and immediately lurched away to retch uncontrollably into the sparse grass. He didn't have a weak stomach, but to see anyone like this, much less a friend!!

Actor was next, rearing back in shock at the sight of that familiar face and form, now so changed, immediately turning to Chief with an urgent "keep Craig back! He cannot see him like this, not like this!" 

The conman shuddered at what HE was seeing, knowing his reaction was only a ripple to the tsunami that would envelop their leader at the sight.

Chief had been the farthest away. Now, skidding to a halt, he took in the condition of that body in one comprehensive glance. The emptied eye sockets, bloody mouth gaping open to reveal it also had been emptied of vital parts. The other mutilations were just as apparent through the torn and bloody remnants of clothing, and he felt the bile rise in his throat. He wanted to follow Casino in tossing up his guts, but couldn't, not yet, not without making sure. There was something - something - 

He stepped closer, went down on one knee, reached out a hand to touch, not just that bared forearm ending in nothing but a bloody stump, the other having fared no better, but the adjacent shoulder, pulling back the shirt to explose the ugly scar there, familiar in shape though distorted by additional damage now. Growling in his uncertainty, he then brushed aside the blood-soaked hair, pulling it back sharply on the left side.

Taking a huge breath, swallowing a deep sound of relief, he told the incredulous pair in a low voice, "this aint Goniff, guys. Whoever did this, they got it almost right, least the shoulder, but they missed that scar from Amsterdam, the one up under his hair. Take a look."

They did, though queasy at the sight. Actor heaved a sigh of profound relief, but then reiterated, "Craig still does not need to see this . . ."

The voice from behind was cracked and dry. "I've already seen, Actor, and Chief's right. This isn't Goniff. They, whoever they are, wanted us to believe it is, alright, but it's not. Even without that scar, I'd know." 

There was no doubt in his voice; he refused to allow doubt there or in his mind, in his heart. He had to believe that, had to believe that if his world had just been shattered like that, that he would know, without a doubt.

His voice was like ice, low and thick from a throat tightened in reaction. 

"Another of the Redmonds, probably; the resemblance is too strong otherwise." 

Well, that was true, at least what had been left to compare. At least the build, the bone structure was right, along with the ashen color of the hair.

He surveyed the damage with cold professionalism, forcing down the need to scream in outrage at everything he saw. From the sheer amount of blood on the civilian clothing, he knew there would be more damage, more indignities revealed when that clothing was removed. He was in no way eager to learn the extent, but knew he would, once he gave himself just a little time.

He pulled himself back, forcing himself to be professional about this. 

{"Alright, Garrison! Get it together! Stop thinking about him as 'Goniff'; he isn't. Think about it as if he were a stranger; start picking out the dots, connecting them, forming the lines, the patterns. Think, damn it!"}

"They made sure we couldn't check fingerprints. He probably had different color eyes, too, for them not to let such a simple thing clue us in to the swap. Unless all of the damage was simply for shock value, thinking we'd focus on the general body build, the scar on his shoulder, the color of hair, but I think not. But they came too close with the scar not to have good info to go on. That wouldn't be easy to duplicate unless they did. That means there's a good chance they had Goniff, maybe still have him. Get a blanket, wrap him up, carefully; he deserves that much respect, whoever he is. Put him in the shed by the motor pool."

Actor shook his head, seeing how shaken Garrison was - enough he wasn't really thinking straight no matter how good of an attempt he was making. He reached over to lay a hand on Garrison's forearm, murmured low.

"Craig, consider. What if they have someone watching to see our reaction, to see if we accept this as Goniff? Would GONIFF had been placed in the shed, no matter what condition he was left in? Surely not! Think, what would you have directed us to do if this truly had been him?"

Garrison stared at him for a moment, then shook his head in disgust at how, in spite of himself, he'd let himself think at just a single layer - well, perhaps two - but not on the multi-layers he was accustomed to, the level he needed to now. Too much depended on this for him to lose focus now.

"No, of course not; you're right. The long table in the small room off my office, then; turn the lights on, leave them on, so anyone can tell where we've put him. Carefully, gently, cover him with the throw in the cupboard - to anyone watching, this IS Goniff - one of our own. 

"Chief, get to the Cottage, find out if Meghada made it back; they were going up to London together. Actor, on the phone to your contacts, but first, Casino, check the lines for any taps. I'll take the other phone, the one you just cleared. I'll reach out to Richards, some of the others we can trust. Move it! We're going to find him, wherever the hell he is, whoever the hell has him! I want him back, and before anyone gets any more bright ideas! And someone get AJ up here, on the double! I want to know who he is - who he was! Everything AJ can tell us!"

Garrison headed off at a run for the office and the phone, fighting the urge to copy Casino in that violent retching at what was left of the man now huddled on the gravel drive. 

{"It's not Goniff, Craig! Remember that!"}. But some part of him kept whispering, {"but it could have been. Dear god, it could have been! It still could be! Whoever did this, they still have him! And what about Meghada??"}

Helping Chief and Actor get the blanket under that limp form, Casino really wanted to repeat his action from before, could feel his gorge rising, but held back. But those words he'd said just before the shots, all about tearing Goniff limb from limb, and that just as a starter, that made him gag up into his throat as he looked on the mutilated body, before swallowing it down and grimly joining with his teammates in taking care of the body left at their feet.

******

It was no easy task, maintaining the illusion that they were down a man, all the while initiating a frantic search for their pickpocket and the Dragon. Every step had to be thought out, every action carefully undertaken, every inquiry ever so cautiously worded. And the results were fruitless - no one seemed to know much of anything. Oh, bits and pieces, maybe, but nothing that would point them in a direction to search for the missing pair.

A mission jerked them away from the fruitless search, one Garrison fought against taking, but to no avail. The only comfort he, they could take was that there were others involved in the search, would continue the effort while they were gone. Not Richards, no, Garrison never had been able to reach the major. 

"Off on a job, Lieutenant. No, can't say when he's due back; you know how that is!" the stranger sitting outside Richards' office said, courteously, but without much interest. Asking about Private Ames, Richards' Aide and cheerful conduit of support and information via his connection to the Clan, had gotten a puzzled shrug, "don't know. I'm here temporary; that's all I know."

But there were others, including Cam Madison, father of Daniel Madison. The O'Donnell brothers put out the word near and far, as did Maude at the pub, and various other, all on the q.t., not wanting to endanger the missing couple even more. 

Perhaps by the time they returned from the mission there would be some word.

They resented being sent away at that particular time; they had another job, in their estimation, and it didn't include bouncing around Geneva retrieving a damned microdot! From the sound of it, any idiot could have swept in and handled things, the carrier of that microdot being a witless socialite who'd accepted the bracelet from an admirer without knowing the contents of that hidden compartment. The only saving grace was that it should be a quick in-and-out, though hampered by the lack of their pickpocket's sure fingers. Oh, Douglas O'Donnell had quickly fallen in with their request for assistance, had joined them at a moment's notice and his fingers were talented as well, but it just wasn't the same. Not for the first time the men admitted to themselves that Goniff provided much more than just his pickpocketing skills, his talents at the second-story work. No, there was much more, now readily apparent in the absence.

It was a relatively simple job, yes, but one where their own emotions hampered what should have been a true walk in the park job. Every sparkling trinket reminded them. Every pearl necklace that graced a slender throat reminded them. Even the mere presence of Douglas O'Donnell, considering Meghada was his sister.

Time after time one of them would find themselves thinking "Goniff wouldn't be able to keep his fingers off THAT piece!", or "Goniff get a good look at those pearls, that dame would be coming up short by the time she got back home!" And those thoughts would remind them of what they'd seen - remind them that they were four when they should have been five. Yes, Douglas was there, was taking up the slack professionally, but that wasn't the face that should have been looking back, grim in resolution, smirking in delight at their success. 

Yes, they succeeded in what they were supposed to be doing, but there was no sense of gratification as there would normally have been. Even the considerable addition to the retirement funds (well, they weren't going to just overlook a windfall; they just might need those added resources before this nightmare was over!) hadn't given them the satisfaction it normally would, although at any other time they would have been chuckling in their proverbial beards at the nice haul.

It was with shock and astonishment when, upon their return, when they finally tracked down Kevin Richards, when Garrison leaned his fists on the senior officer's desk and demanded they be put on detached duty in order to locate the missing Goniff and Meghada, they got a puzzled look, an incredulous response from the exhausted-looking officer.

"What on earth are you talking about, Lieutenant? Missing? Nothing of the sort, I assure you! They're with Ainsley, of course! Well, at least they were; we all arrived back a couple of hours ago; they should be finished with debriefing soon, I'd think; I just finished with my side of it. Amazing job, too! Between Ainsley and his two, and that incorrigible pickpocket of yours along with Meghada, both of whom he co-opted on the spur of the moment, right off the street in front of HQ, mind you! we got Reynolds and Howard out alive, which is a minor miracle! But you should have known where they were! I was already on my way to the departure point when Ainsley grabbed them, but Michaels was there. That's what Ainsley told me. He was to have gotten word to you!"

Grimly assured that no word had come from Michaels or anyone else, other than a mutilated body dumped at their doorstep, Richards determined he needed to have a quiet little word (well, maybe not so quiet) with his fellow officer. This really was unconscionable!

To pass the time, so to speak, while waiting for Goniff and Meghada to reappear, Garrison brought Richards up to speed on recent events. Even the battle-hardened major was shaken by the litany of injuries to the body that was tossed out like a pile of garbage. He shuddered to think of what Garrison and the others had been going through, was even more ready to tear into Michaels for not doing as he'd been asked. It might not have answered the basic questions, but it would have relieved a few minds!

The sight of a weary but totally intact little pickpocket, a slightly-damaged but cheerful redhead sauntering down the hallway was possibly the most beautiful thing Garrison and the guys had seen for some time, pearls, sparkly trinkets, microdots, and all else included. If the two were more than a little bewildered at the over-the-top greeting, the hugs and pounding on the back and a great deal more, they were soon shuttled off to be brought up to date.

For Major Kingston, rounding the corner just in time to see the reunion, it wasn't nearly as pleasing a sight. Well, hadn't he had assurances from Daemon that the Cockney was dead, and in a most unpleasant manner? Dead, and tossed at Garrison's feet like a used, crumpled, and then discarded handkerchief? He'd been counting on that, what with that new mission already on the boards to be handed to the team - a team he had been counting on to be at anything BUT their best!!

Kingston backed up quickly into the shadows, listening to the hurried explanations on both sides, especially that "thought it was, you damn fool Limey! Sure tried to make it look like it was! Even had that scar on your shoulder faked out pretty good!"

He watched in sheer frustration at the back-slapping and all else that was transpiring, then turned to head back to his office. 

He needed to re-think his connection with Daemon. He'd given every bit of information he had on the team, on each man - medical records included. Enough, it would appear, for his employee to take the expedient way out and substitute a close fascimile for the real intended target. 

If the man could fail this badly, then lie so blatantly to Kingston about the results, obviously the man was not to be trusted. Just as obviously, he was a loose thread that needed to be clipped off and thrown in the trash, before he became a danger to the entire operation. More importantly, a danger to Major Lionel Kingston. 

{"Really, good help is SO hard to find these days!"}

*  
Henri Marchant had rooms available in the private sector, which was good, since Richards had, most reluctantly, informed them that they would need to be on hand for a briefing sometime early the following day. 

"I'm afraid there's not much down time before you head back out, and this looks to be a very tricky one. Oh, you can head back to your base after the briefing, but you'll be pulling out within a day or so, as soon as you get your plans in order, Lieutenant Garrison. I wish we had more time, but frankly, we simply do not. Yes, Meghada, you're included in on this one; you have the contacts in that area, or so I have been assured. You will be going in ahead of the team to set things up. That could prove key."

It was over a bottle and sandwiches that each side of the story was told. 

As Goniff and Meghada told it, it had been a frustrating thing, no doubt about it. Arriving at HQ, parking the car in the side area, getting out to go their separate ways for at least a brief time. The rush of feet headed toward them was the first clue they had that their plans, as sweet as they sounded, were all in vain. They certainly hadn't been expecting to be swept up by Alex Ainsley with a quick "just who we are needing! Come on, the plane is due to take off in less than thirty, and we've barely enough time to make it as it is! No, no time for a pack; no time for anything! We'll all just have to make do!"

It was useless protesting, and there had been no opportunity to call back to the Mansion, let Garrison know they'd been co-opted for this desperate rescue mission. There had been a sense of doom on Ainsley's face that told them this wasn't a trivial matter, and when they heard about Reynolds' team and what had gone down, Reynolds and Howard left behind, they didn't protest. Well, not protest, so much, as to worry about the repercussions, notwithstanding Ainsley's reassurance that "Michaels was standing beside me when we saw you drive up. He heard me when I said I was going to grab you two to fill out the roster; I yelled back for him to let Garrison know."

"Ruddy well 'ope so! Otherwise, 'e's gonna think we've gone stark raving mad, disappearing like this," Goniff grumbled as he pulled his harness tighter. He didn't know this 'Michaels', whoever he might be, and didn't trust that the message would get where it needed to get, or even if it did, quickly enough to allay the fallout sure to come. Sometimes there were blokes who just didn't understand what was important and what wasn't.

Unfortunately, it seems Michaels was one of those blokes who DIDN'T quite understand as well as you'd like, or maybe got distracted too easily. That pretty girl in uniform who passed by caught his attention, and to be honest, he never gave Ainsley, Garrison or any of the others another thought. After all, he was an officer, not some errand-boy for Special Forces or anyone else!

Needless to say, that night they got their first sound sleep in days, knowing their group was all together again. Yeah, they were probably headed back out into the battle, but at least, for now, they were together, safe and sound.

Leaving the others to get some much-needed sleep, Garrison pulled himself up before dawn, and after a quick cup of coffee in the kitchens below, headed to HQ. 

The briefing was received with a decided lack of enthusiasm, wondering just how the holy hell they expected him and his men to pull THIS rabbit out of a hat. The job itself was, on the surface, an impossibility. Add to that the other dangers, including the ones of putting his men in close proximity to a haul like the one described - well, he felt the need for aspirin, perhaps washed down with a stiff drink. 

Richards, in full agreement, kindly provided both, before dismissing him, though asking "send Meghada to me, will you, after you've filled her in? And do that BEFORE you leave London. I doubt there will be time for her to return to Brandonshire before she has to take off, but I'm sure Ciena will have whatever she might need in her flat, or possibly elsewhere. No, I don't know where, though I assume Meghada does. As usual with Ciena, I try very hard to know as little as I can about that young woman and her doings, other than what I must. Well, it's better than dealing with Coura, I'll admit, but still . . ."

Garrison left, gave his own briefing and gave Meghada the message. Then he collected the others with a quick, "come on. Let's get something to eat, pick up some supplies and get back. I need to see if I can stir up a miracle or two, because it looks like we're going to need it! And there's other business I need to attend to before we leave. I need to see if anyone's found out anything, anything at all!"

It turned out Meghada did have time, or at least she made time, to go back to Brandonshire with them, though it was a quick stop and even quicker return trip to make her transport. Still, she needed to be there for Goniff, needed to get whatever information she could. She'd use any down time during the outward journey to try and make the pieces fit, as well as plan what would happen at her destination.

Goniff stood silently looking at the crude marker at the head of the newly-dug grave off in the shadows of the small cemetery. Raising his shadowed eyes to his companion, he swallowed and admitted, "gives a man an uneasy feeling, seeing 'is own grave, reading 'is name written out like that. Could 'ave done without the experience, to tell the truth."

Meghada could say pretty much the same. In fact, she was a little indignant at the placement far off to the side, at the cheap wooden marker, name just painted on - all marks of sheer disrespect to her eyes. That was before she realized how foolish that reaction was. If that had truly been Goniff in that coffin, there would have BEEN a proper headstone, if not now, then soon; that would have been seen to, without doubt. And he'd not be buried in the shadows, certainly, but where he could appreciate the sunshine when it came; Chief would have put his foot down there. {"Nevermind how much sense, or how little, that bit of fancy is!"} realizing how much of that overreaction came from a combination of exhaustion and anger.

"Let's check with AJ, see if 'e knows w'at Craig was all po-mouthed about telling us. Could tell there's more," Goniff urged, "but didn't want to press 'im, not with that look on 'is face."

Meghada wasn't all that sure they really wanted to know, but reluctantly agreed it probably was best if they did.

Making sense of it all wasn't easy. AJ had initially been sparing of the details about that body, kept dancing around the questions, enough Goniff got frustrated and just reached out to grab the sheaf of papers to read them himself. The deepening pallor had Meghada gently removing that file, reading it herself, after Goniff had dropped it to his lap and stared blankly off at the wall opposite him, swallowing convulsively.

"Post-mortem, AJ. The injuries, the mutilations were done AFTER death? You're sure of that?" she asked in a hushed voice. Well, dead was dead, and bad enough, but such cruelty, such violence was more than she had come up against in a while, and picturing that, knowing a live person had experienced that, especially considering how much the man had obviously looked like Goniff, it was not an easy thing. Post-mortem would be a blessing, if anything about this nightmare could be called such a thing.

"Yes. I did a full autopsy to find out as much as I could. I would have, of course, even without Garrison's insistence. He died from a sharp blow to the head; he would have died instantly. My guess? That, his death at that point - that was an accident unforeseen by his assailant. I hate to say lucky accident, but considering everything, I think it was, at least for the victim, considering what else lay in store for the poor man. His skull was exceptionally thin at the point of contact, you see," tapping a point on the base of his own skull, "unusually so - a congenital condition in my estimation, or perhaps a childhood injury. The rest - the rest came after, for whatever purpose that might have served. 

"Oh, there was plenty of blood, enough to have made Garrison and the others think otherwise, but it was cow's blood, not human, for the most part," and he swallowed down the bitter coffee that rose in his throat at remembering all of that 'rest'. He was a Clan Friend, knew all the old stories, many of them bloody and violent, but like Meghada, this level of mutilation was something he'd not seen before, not all centered on one small crumpled body. For him, too, the resemblance to the slender man seated opposite was far too close for his own ease of mind.

"I did some quiet investigative work, along with the others, going on the notion that perhaps he originated in London. There is a strong possibility, no guarantees, of course, but a possibility, that he was one Darby MacNair. If so, his wife Shana reported him missing; didn't come back from meeting up with a prospective employer several days ago. 

"The local constabulary seem to put it down to him just walking off, not wanting the responsibility of a wife with a babe on the way. Well, they weren't locals, and he wasn't interested in making a lot of effort. But Maude talked to the girl, says it's possible, of course, anything is, but she's doubtful. Thing is, other than his eyes being brown, he'd have passed a general description of Goniff here, even down to the main specialty. A sticky-fingers man, though filling that out with forgery instead of second-story work, but not local. Belfast, from what Maude got out of the wife, with them leaving to get a new start, away from that lay, not wanting their new family caught up in that."

Cam Madison had come up with the other name. "Daemon Cutter, 'e calls 'imself. Not likely 'is real name, of course, but not far off the mark to my way of looking at things. Not local, but 'as a contact or two who put any askers in the way to reaching 'im. We'll be 'aving a friendly word with them about maybe needing to stop doing that. We've enough to deal with with the ones w'at belong around 'ere w'at 'ave odd starts to them, don't need outsiders taking a 'and. Especially not against one who's more one of our own than not. Oh, didn't turn out like that, but that seems to 'ave been the intent, which comes down to the same thing to my mind.

"This MacNair bloke, 'im and 'is wife just arrived. Was looking to be taken on over at Minty's place; Minty said 'e showed up just as 'e ought, just like arranged. They talked it over, and came to an agreement. MacNair was to start work in a few days. Never showed up, which pissed Minty off more than a little, MacNair only being given the chance due to being recommended by Minty's cousin over in Belfast on account of a favor being owed there.

"Thing is, Minty's place is on a line w'ere Goniff would 'ave likely be traveling after leaving the 'ospital after talking some sense into our Daniel. If this Daemon was put to watching for 'im, or any of your men, like we think from the questions we've 'eard 'e'd been asking, not unlikely 'e could 'ave caught sight of MacNair and mistook 'im, at least til it was too late to turn back. Easy enough to do by the description, though MacNair being a few years younger. Be better off all around, most like, if the bastard 'AD tried for Goniff, at least, as long as the O'Donnell miss was with 'im; doubt there'd be anything left of 'im to answer questions about who put 'im to the task. She 'as a temper, our Miss Ru, and your Goniff 'as a few tricks of 'is own."

"Now, as to who 'ired 'im, that's the question, aint it? The go-betweens swear they 'ave no clue, just a voice, a shadow, money passed over. We'll keep asking around, but don't 'old your breath, Lieutenant. Seems the only one who might know for sure would be Daemon 'imself. Still, whoever it was, seems they knew enough to give the bloke enough information to 'ave 'im try and fake that scar on 'is shoulder, from w'at you were saying. Whether that was from knowing 'im personal, or from any records your group might 'ave on 'im, that I couldn't say. Again, probably only Daemon could tell you."

Daemon wasn't answering questions at all, unfortunately. One pistol shot through the heart after a meeting down on the docks with his employer took care of that, the water just waiting to receive him. His body had floated in under the docks on the morning tide. 

Garrison wasn't happy about that, but upon questioning, Cam Madison assured him it hadn't been any of the locals. 

"Not that we appreciate 'im bringing 'is butchery around 'ere, but we knew you'd be wanting a word - well, you and Miss Ru. Wouldn't spike your wheel like that, not without asking if that's w'at you were wanting us to do. Not that we wouldn't 'ave, if you needed it done, Lieutenant, but not without asking first."

Garrison got halfway back to Brandonshire before the pieces he was diagraming in his mind clicked into place, before he truly realized (or maybe it was that he finally admitted) how close run a thing it had been for Daemon Cutter to have spotted Darby MacNair before he spotted Goniff. 

{"They were planning to split up, Meghada to HQ, Goniff headed out on foot toward Marchant's. If MacNair hadn't crossed Cutter's path first . . . "}. 

Sweat coated his body now, in the realization, nausea building in a rush. The car swerved off the road as Garrison barely made it out of the car in time before his stomach rebelled. {"It wasn't Goniff - but it could have been!"}

*  
Shana MacNair sat numbly listening to the young officer so kindly, so gently explaining to her that her Darby wasn't coming back. AND the reason, though there were no particulars given, just that he had been killed, was already buried in some far away place called Brandonshire in the south of England. 

Well, she'd expected that, hadn't she? His being dead, anyway. Darby would never have abandoned her, never! They were a team, they'd always laughed, a team no one could separate, no one could break apart. No matter how others viewed them, to her he was her world, and she knew it had been the same for him. They HAD no one else, not really.

They'd silently driven the long distance from London to that small village, her standing there looking at the simple marker and the smoothed mound of fresh earth. 

"I'll arrange for a headstone, of course, but I wanted to check to see what you wanted it to say first," he told her awkwardly. Well, he was still feeling more than a little awkward for lying to her, or at least, avoiding telling her exactly how her husband had died, or why. He hadn't had a choice, not to his way of seeing it. No woman needed to hear the gruesome details, especially not a pregnant wife who'd obviously loved her husband deeply.

Luckily she was too dazed to question what little he did tell her - that Darby had suffered a blow to the head, most likely in an accident; that the ones who found him mistook him for one of Garrison's men due to the uncanny resemblance - that THAT was how Darby MacNair ended up in Brandonshire, in this quiet little cemetery. "By the time we realized there had been a mistake, well, our local doctor said the ordinances required a burial, even if the proper identification had to follow along later."

No, that likely wouldn't have passed muster if she'd been in possession of her full wits, but the shock prevented that, now and later. Maybe some part of her did realize she was being told less than the whole story, but the honest concern, the genuine kindness in the officer's green eyes kept her from asking more. The why and wherefore of why the man was making it his responsibility in the first place was something that surely would have occurred to her, if not then, then later.

She thought, then recited what she'd never imagined she'd have to say. Oh, eventually, of course, but not this early. 

"Darby MacNair. Age 27. Beloved husband to Shana. Loving father." 

Well, maybe that was stretching a point but she thought it needed saying. She knew her Darby, and he WOULD have been a loving father to the child she was carrying, his child, their child. 

She remembered the joy in his eyes when she'd told him. How he'd been so determined to give their child a chance to be more than he was. He'd laughed with such happiness, had proclaimed "this one will make us proud, just you wait and see, Shana! The MacNair name will be something we can hold our heads up high for, and all due to this one - boy or girl, they'll make us proud, I know that!" 

"At least, that was the name he was given at the orphanage. He never knew his parents, was a foundling without a clue as to who they might have been. I'm a McGinty, at least my mother was. My father - well, that changed near every time I asked her about that. I never knew if she was protecting him, or maybe me - or if her memory was truly that poor." 

She realized she was babbling, all of that not something this man needed to know; she wasn't sure just why she was sharing it with him now. 

The officer nodded quietly. "I'll see to it."

"He'd like it here," she said absently, looking around. "A nice quiet place, sheltered by the trees. His work kept us in the city, but he favored the countryside. He said when he was through with work, down the road we'd retire to a small village somewhere, live a quiet peaceful life. He even laughed once, about being buried in a quiet little place like this, with me tucked safe alongside him."

The drive back was almost as quiet as the one coming down.

"Do you have someplace to go, someone to go to?" the green-eyed officer asked awkwardly after he escorted her back to her room.

Shana MacNair stared at him, not comprehending at first, then nodded slowly. He was right, she couldn't just stay here in this rented room waiting for her Darby, not when he wasn't coming back for her. 

She traced the slight mound of her abdomen, trying to reach out to the life within, reassuring all she had left of Darby that her mother's family, what she had left, would take them in, that there would be a place for them. She wasn't altogether sure of that, but it seemed best, considering her lack of other options.

"I'll go back to my mother's family. At least, for awhile. . ." her voice drifting off into nothing. Garrison noted her eyes did the same. 

He handed her an envelope, saw her stare at it incomprehendingly.

"This might help. If there's anything I can do, anything, just let me know; I'll do whatever I can - as much as if he truly HAD been one of my men. You have my word on that. My address is written on here; at least, where I am now. Later, well, the Constable in Brandonshire will know how to reach me if I'm reassigned."

He hated to leave her alone, but the sub he was to leave on, him and his team, wasn't going to wait. He regretted coming alone, now, but he'd decided it was best not to crowd her with too many people. 

Meghada had shipped out early to prepare the groundwork needed for the job ahead, so she hadn't been there to ask. The guys had wanted to come, especially Goniff, who seemed to feel some familial responsibility along with a hefty dose of survivor's guilt, but even their pickpocket realized the sight of his too-familiar face might be too much for the woman under the circumstances.

Back in that rental room, Shana sat for a long time after Garrison left, then slowly, stiffly stood up to pack her few belongings, the few belonging to Darby in their one suitcase. The envelope the officer had placed in her hand contained money, a considerable amount of it, far more than she'd ever seen, certainly. That went in her purse as she slowly exited the only remaining shelter she had, heading for the train station to reverse their so-recent journey. First the station, then eventually to the dock where she could board the ferry, then - then - Her mind numbed out at that point, seeing only fog in the distance.

Now, the gently moving deck beneath her feet, she stopped to take stock. A weak cup of tea obtained from the vendor failed to revive her, and it was with a lackluster gaze she took in her surroundings, the others wandering around or seated on the bare benches as she was. 

It was with a trickle of amused recognition she watched the boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, plying his trade, wandering through, visiting a pocket here and there before wandering away again. He looked as if he hadn't had a decent meal in some time, his face, his frame narrow, his eyes far older than they should have been. He was dark, not fair like Darby, but there was something there that reminded her of her husband, other than their shared profession.

She called him to her when he came within speaking range, handed him some coins, asked him to get her another cup of tea, "and one for yourself, along with a sandwich maybe. Then come and sit beside me for a bit."

He did, and he had, had cautiously shared a desultory conversation before he'd wandered off again, intent on his work, his stomach at ease for the first time in days.

She was becoming increasingly uneasy, feeling like she was expecting someone to approach, or something to happen, but didn't know who or what. She stood impatiently, her suitcase left behind at the side of the bench while she moved to the rail to watch the water. She seemed to hear Darby's voice in the waves, see him smiling at her from the depths. So warm that smile! So beloved that face!

She trailed her hand over her abdomen once again, disturbed, for the first time, to get no hint of a reply to her frequent thoughts of reassurance. Then she felt the rush of liquid, the first agonizing pain that made her want to double over, to collapse on the deck to scream, to mourn her double loss. 

She didn't. Shana knew that would bring aid, and that was the last thing she wanted now. Now there was only one thing she wanted, and she determined to let nothing stand in her way. But there was one last thing she wanted to do, had ever since that boy's tired, haunted eyes had met her own. If she hurried, if she was lucky, no one would spot the blood on her skirts til she had accomplished her goals, both of them.

Turning, she made her way toward the narrow open stairs that led to the upper bridge, seeing with satisfaction she would pass the pickpocket on the way. 

A quick, very low "here, take this. Let no one find it! Take it back to the one whose name is written there, tell him everything. Tell him I sent you to him, that I am counting on him to fulfil his promise - that I passed it along to you. Trust in him - if anyone can be trusted, I believe it to be him. Be safe! Don't get caught! Do us proud, laddie! Make the MacNair name an honest one, one to be respected, just as we planned! You are our legacy now, mine and Darby's, the only one we will have!" and she was past and gone. 

The boy said nothing, didn't even let his eyes move toward her for a space of moments, not wanting to betray her, though he'd felt her slip something into his jacket. Was she a fellow quick-finger artist, using him to give some quick-eyed mark the slip? 

He let his eyes casually survey the people around, not finding the lady anywhere in sight. A faint movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, he raised his eyes, and saw her, balanced at the now-opened railing access of the narrow decking above, gazing down at the swirling waters below. He started to cry out, bring others to help, to pull her back, but her calm eyes met his and she smiled just a tiny smile and nodded reassuringly, and he swallowed that alarm before it was given. That wasn't what she wanted, the lady, he knew that now.

Then - she was gone, as if she'd never been. He refused to let his fingers reach for whatever she had left him. That was for later. He thought it over, then with a shrug, carefully worked the crowd once more, replacing all he'd spent the time onboard collecting. Maybe what she'd given him would make up for that, maybe not, but that warning of being safe, not being caught had given him a sense of urgency about appearing totally innocent when the questions would start. And they would start; a woman just didn't disappear off a ship and there be no questions, surely. Though he would have to think about what else she'd said, about a 'legacy', whatever that was. That was a puzzlement, that was. 

*  
Years later Darby Shane MacNair, known in his youth only as 'Snips', would sometimes sit, fingering the treasured contents of that suitcase, the one he'd claimed when no one else had. There had been no argument, since he'd been seen fetching tea for the lady, sitting beside her for awhile, and he was off and gone before one could arise. 

The diary he'd figured out, slowly, letter by painful letter, once he'd gotten to safety, enough to piece together at least part of their story, the two he'd quickly decided to claim as his 'parents', no matter the apparent age of the lady making that near impossible. Well, there were no others who could claim that title, not that he'd ever known. And from what the lady, Mother Shana as he now thought of her, had said, it was almost as if she had decided to look on it that way as well.

What had been even more amazing was that those others had decided to look on it that way too - the American officer and his men. 'Uncle Craig', as Darby was soon calling Craig Garrison, and the others - those also uncles to his mind and theirs. 

Once he'd shown up, footsore and weary and hungry, having walked most of the long way for fear of being taken up by officials and tossed into forced work 'for his own good' - once he'd told the story, handed over the envelope with the address still written at the top corner, he'd been gathered in. He'd been skeptical, of course, wondering if he wasn't better off just running, taking that windfall and disappearing, rather than following the instructions of the wan-faced lady. Now, as so many times before, he was glad he'd listened, done just what she'd asked. 

He looked up at the quiet knock on the door, at that smiling face that leaned into the opening.

"Darby, are you ready? We need to get started if we're going to make it to London in time to give you your treat before you head back to the university," Garrison said. 

Yes, a treat HAD been promised, one looked forward to by everyone - well, the guys anyway, Meghada laughing but declining to join them in what she called a 'guys' road trip'. 

That treat involved a night at the theatre, a musical comedy that, considering Casino had picked it out, promised to be more than a little risque. A long browse at the bookstore with a free hand to get whatever he wanted, "as much as you can carry, or convince these bums to carry for you" was also in the plans, Darby devouring books as enthusiastically as Goniff devoured food. And not least, a promised cozy tea with Amy Ann Collins, complete with cream buns and tarts and whatever else Goniff decided on at the bakery located in the shops below her flat. He laughed to himself, {"I imagine he'll have to convince some of us to help him with that load as well; he's not likely to skimp!"}

Tea with Amy Ann was never boring, even discounting the sweet treats sure to make an appearance. Darby was hoping she'd flirt outrageously with Casino as she did sometimes. He shared the others' amusement at the sheer panic the safecracker always got in his eyes once his mind remembered what his body obviously kept forgetting - that Amy Ann was over a hundred years old now, and a ghost for most of those years. Darby had no such qualms; he found the thought of ghosts, at least the kindly sort, rather comforting; he often thought of Shana and Darby MacNair as being such, keeping a watchful and benevolent eye out for him. And he enjoyed the gentle flirting she did with HIM, though it had never gone further, Amy Ann pretty much keeping her sweeter charms for Goniff, all with Craig and Meghada's blessing, but he was ever hopeful. Maybe when he came back from university next time.

Darby now smiled up at his honorary uncle in return; it was just impossible not to, even though he still wasn't sure about the university. It was alright, of course, he was doing well enough in his classes, enjoyed them even. But he'd really rather be staying here, working with Uncle Craig and the guys. 

Goniff had argued for that, from early on, "better for us to keep an eye to keeping 'im safe, you know," even handing out the considerable praise and added inducement of "almost as good as I was at 'is age, Craig, with the fast finger work, the second-story stuff too; wouldn't 'urt to 'ave someone ready to take over, just in case, you know?" 

There had been a serious, even dark knowledge in those hazy blue eyes at that comment.

But Garrison had been adamant in his own view, as he had been all along, delivering a stern "yes, we're going to take care of him, whether here or elsewhere, but understand me! There's not going to BE a 'just in case', Goniff! I'm not going through that again!" Well, it had been just 'such a case' that had led Darby to them in the first place, after all, though it certainly hadn't been the only one, their history being such that it was.

Garrison had finally understood, even pretty much accepted Goniff's rock-solid position where Darby was concerned. It didn't scan, logically, but then Goniff's mind DID work in some odd rhythm of its own most times, and Garrison had gotten used to that over time. He remembered that conversation with a wry shake of his head. {"Yes, typical Goniff!"}

"Seems like I took w'at belonged to 'im, Craig, w'at with that Daemon bloke mistaking MacNeil for me. Lost 'im, lost the lady too, because of that. 

"No, you don't 'ave to tell me - I know that don't make sense! If Daemon 'AD taken me, left MacNeil alone, likely the lady wouldn't 'ave been on that ferry in the first place, would never 'ave even set eyes on the boy. Never would've adopted 'im spur of the moment like she did, neither. She would never 'ave met you, you'd never gone promising 'er anything. We'd never 'ave met 'im, or if we did, not 'ad that promise of yours to cause us to take any special 'eed. I KNOW all that! Up 'ere, I know it," touching his temple. "Thing is, that's not w'at it feels like, in 'ere," those long fingers tapping the area over his heart. "It comes down to, I'm alive cause this Daemon mistook MacNair for me. They're both dead, 'im and 'is lady, because of that mistake, and 'ere I am, alive and walking around. I can't make it up to them; there's only the boy to let me get things maybe a little back in balance."

Garrison hadn't been able to argue against that, hadn't even tried, just accepted that Goniff's heart was making itself heard louder than any argument he or anyone else would have been able to override. That was often the case, and Garrison had to admit, it was one of the first things that had drawn him to his pickpocket, that outsized and caring heart.

So, Goniff felt 'responsible', and Garrison felt responsible, and the others accepted that and tucked their own shoulders up alongside theirs, and took on responsibility as well, and others watched in bemusement as a promise made was fulfilled in ways no one could have foreseen.

Yes, Garrison kept his promises, even ones passed along from one person to another. So, even from the first, Darby had been gathered in, fed, clothed, cared for - first as a boarding student at the Orphanage, the only one with 'family', at least of a sort, to look to. He'd been educated whether he was in favor of the notion or not - first with Miss Rebecka and others tutoring him, then with Reverend Standish, Constable Miller and others helping along. And always, with the guys doing their part, each giving him their very best. 

Then, surprisingly soon considering he'd barely been able to make out his letters when he'd arrived, university. 

"At least two years, Darby - it will take that long to see if you and it are suited," Actor had admonished him upon hearing the complaints after the notion was first discussed. "Then, if it appears you and higher education are not compatible, perhaps a year elsewhere, perhaps with Craig's uncle and HIS family; they have a myriad of valuable skills to learn as well," insisted the man who'd taught Darby about literature and jewels, about fine manners and fine wine and fine foods, and much more. 

Although he'd never openly expressed it, the con man was NOT in favor of Darby spending any more time with Meghada's family than he already was; somehow, 'refinement' and 'Clan O'Donnell' did not fit together nearly as well as he would prefer, and this young man had the basis for 'refinement', that much was obvious to Actor, even if not to the others.

Meghada watched them drive off, laughing quietly to herself. It was a guys-only road trip, similar to the times they'd disappear on leave during the war, and she was willing enough to stay back and leave the testosterone-laden enviroment free for them to enjoy without her presence putting a damper of any kind on the activities. Although she admitted she would be eager to hear all the stories she just knew would be generated by this lively group. 

She remarked to Mrs. Wilson, who'd come to wave off young Darby, him being one of the washer woman's favorites, "I wonder what he will decide, the young rascal, when he DOES decide. So far he's mentioned being a teacher, or a veterinarian, or maybe an architect. Seems he has an interest in all of that and more. Well, he DID mention the excitement and challenge of perhaps being the next Raffles - the cracksman, not that scoundrel of a colonial administrator - but Craig is trying to dissuade him from that. I'm hoping Actor and Goniff and the others are coming down on Craig's side, but with the guys, I wouldn't care to guarantee that. I should probably see to having bail money set aside, though, just in case."

Well, she would do just that, or at least up the amount she kept at the ready just in case the guys came up on the wrong side of a set of iron bars. Bail money, a few handy lawyers at her beck and call, and the logistical plans of as many of the places of likely confinement as she could put her hands on. She DID believe in being prepared.

"Darby could turn his hand, his mind to almost anything, you know. They have each poured their best into him - their skills, their knowledge, along with all else. He speaks of himself as being the legacy of Shana and Darby MacNair; I think they would be quite astonished, quite pleased, with the result, do you not?"

Mrs. Wilson nodded. The old woman had been many people, herself, not considering that to be necessarily a drawback in herself or in others.

"Aye, and no reason not to be pleased, to my mind. I've not seen his like before, young Darby, not in my time. He could move in any circles, from the East End to the highest, work most any fiddle you can think of, and more talented fingers or a kinder heart I've not seen, except maybe for your Goniff, nor a sharper, quicker mind, than maybe your Craig. He can charm the ladies with the best, whether with Casino's sure brashness or Chief's quieter ways, even with Actor's sophistication, though he is avoiding Actor's nose-in-the-air ways, thankfully. All of their talents they have entrusted to him, and he is proving them proud, you can see that most easily. He is the MacNair legacy, true enough, and as fine a one as they could have hoped for. To my mind, he will be the same to your lads as well, all of them.

"Now, the question that remains to be answered, can he get himself into as much trouble as the lot of them do?" she'd asked with a sly smile.

Meghada nodded ruefully, remembering some escapades from the older lot AND this young man. 

"I'd not doubt that one instant. Ah well, I doubt I'd like him near so well if he couldn't. The women of my family always HAVE had a fondness for a bit of the rogue in a man. Never could see the attraction of the dullards, the prim-nosed ones. Some can be coaxed out of that nonsense, like our dear Kevin, but most are sadly hide-bound in their arrogance, or their prim self-righteousness. I'll not abide a bully, of course, or a fool, nor one with evil in their hearts, but there needs to be a balance, surely. I don't mind having a lapdog around, provided they have four legs, but otherwise . . . ."

Mrs. Wilson had to agree; a bit of roguishness in a man was a lure for any woman with more than watered milk in her veins. Why, just look at Howie - for them to end up in the same village after all the wildness of their youth, their shared misadventures, was luck she'd never thought to encounter! 

Dear Howie! A rogue he'd been in his youth, though a good-natured one, and a rogue he remained, though he kept that well hidden from all but herself. Well, she'd been much the same, of course, and no more eager to share that part of her with many, even at this time. 

Still, the O'Donnell lass knew more than most; perhaps that was part of the affection they bore each other. {"It takes a rogue to know a rogue - aye, and to appreciate one!"}

It was not so many years later that Darby MacNair was making a quick family visit at the Cottages in Brandonshire before returning to his post with the International Red Cross, where he helped put in place and direct various humanitarian efforts.

It was on his last afternoon there that he made yet another visit to the small cemetery. His wife, Mariéanne, and their infant son, another Darby Shane, stayed in the warm kitchen. They had accompanied him on an earlier visit, soon after their arrival, but this was Darby's time alone.

He stood for some time at that shaded, well-tended grave with the simple but elegant headstone with the inscription 'Darby MacNair, Beloved Husband to Shana, Loving Father to Darby Shane.' carved at the top. There was a matching one at the side, 'In Memory of Shana MacNair, Devoted Wife, Loving Mother to Young Darby, Their Only Son'. There was another carved stone, this a rectangle joining the two headstones. "Together in life, together in death. Their Legacy lives on."

"He'll do you proud, I know he will; him and any others that come along. Father Darby was right, you know. The MacNair name will be one to look up to, I promise you that, Mother Shana," he smiled gently, before returning to continue his part of fulfilling that legacy.

Craig and Goniff looked on from the far side of the white picket fence. Sometimes things worked in the oddest fashion; they'd experienced that many a time. But this? The two men had to admit, this was perhaps one of the oddest, and the most satisfying. Well, it wasn't every day a man had a part in seeing that a legacy was fulfilled.


End file.
